Every movement was deliberate. Controlled. Measured down to the last breath.
The kind of dressing that meant war, not celebration.
I adjusted the bow tie until it sat flush against my throat. Tight. Restrictive.
Perfect.
No part of me would be left undone. Not tonight.
The cufflinks clicked into place—silver serpents, coiled and glinting like they were ready to strike. Fitting, really.
They were a mirror: hungry things twisted around themselves, sharp-eyed and patient.
Just like me.
I glanced at my reflection in the mirror?—
Slick suit. Cold eyes.
Not a groom. Not a lover.
A king.
Dressed for conquest.
There’d be no boutonnière.
No soft edges.
No symbols of love or fragility.
I didn’t need flowers to tell her what this night meant.
She’d feel it.
Every inch of it.
My fingers drifted to my inner pocket—brushed the velvet box inside.
The wedding band sat heavy inside, dark metal edged in silver. Not elegant. Not pretty.
Final.
It would slide over her finger like a lock snapping shut.
I could already picture her hand in mine—trembling, resisting, failing.
And me?
Smiling.
Because those rings combined on that dainty finger wasn’t just a symbol.
It was a sentence.
I took one last look around the room…
Low light. Shadows dancing along the walls like ghosts clapping at the altar.
